Undercover Niceguy

In this Esquire article (with a very disturbing photo at the top), the author recounts his experience trying to set up his drop-dead gorgeous babysitter on a date.  For some inexplicable reason, she can’t seem to find a man on her own, so her host dad decides to help her out by impersonating her on an internet dating site and sifting through the e-suitors until he finds someone acceptable (to her, not to him, though the line is blurred).

Reading about his efforts, I can’t help but think what a milquetoast this guy is, as exemplified by what he imagines his hot nanny would look for in a guy.  It’s a classic case of beta projection.  But I suppose throughout history LJBF’ed betas have served as male cockblocks intercepting the natural desire of girls to hook up with the kinds of men who stomp all over betas.  If I were him, I’d be working the magic on my nanny, not working to get her banged by someone else.

The best part of the article is when the author has an email exchange with a guy who obviously has some knowledge of the Game.

One writes that he wants to know more about Michelle [the babysitter], but adds, “I can tell from your profile that sometimes you’re a handful.”

That’s annoying.

I respond: “What gives you the idea that I’m sometimes a handful?”

He responds: “I am so right!”

Now the bastard has really pissed me off.

Of course he has.  You are a man.  You respond to cocky flirting from another man by rearing up, flattening your ears, and raising your fur.  A woman would respond much differently. 

I click on his profile. A John Turturro look-alike with a smug smile.

He sees “smug”; she would see “confident”.

His opening photo shows him with his arm around a pretty woman with large breasts, as if to say, “I hang around with hot, large-breasted women, so if you are a hot, large-breasted woman, you should also hang around with me.” He likes to “work hard and play harder.” He is “VERY spiritual.”

Social proof, knows how to have fun, and dabbles in the supernatural.  Well-established tactics in the player’s arsenal of seduction.  His nanny would not react to this the way he is.

Michelle is not a handful. In her profile, she says that she’s very open and will let you know when she’s upset. That makes her a handful?

Too funny.  The author, Jacobs, doesn’t realize it, but the suitor’s seduction tactic worked on him.  He’s qualifying himself here!

Anyhow, Jacobs is clueless.  He must be much older because he can’t grasp the nuance of the word “handful” in this context.  Letting a guy know when she’s upset is, in fact, a leading indicator of handfulness.  The suitor has used a qualification technique on the girl designed to put her on the defensive and convince her he has standards in the women he dates.

But I have a theory. I think the fucker is employing an underhanded strategy. I edited an article a couple of years ago about a book called The Game, by Neil Strauss.

A glowing review, I’m sure.  Note to aspiring authors of player manuals — don’t let a beta review your book.

It’s about a nebbishy guy who decides to become the world’s greatest pickup artist, and it became exceedingly popular with a certain type of single man. One major strategy Strauss talks about is to mildly insult a beautiful woman, lower her self-esteem, thus making her more vulnerable to your advances.

This is a common misperception.  The objective is not to lower the self-esteem of the girl but raise the value of the player relative to her and therefore make her lower her bitch shield and become more pliable for conversation.  Backhanded compliments tell the girl that he is a guy who isn’t dazzled by her beauty like all those other losers.

So I e-mail handful guy as Michelle: “Have you read the Game by Neil Strauss?”

He says, “What makes you ask me that?”

Yes! Busted.

Congratulations, Jacobs, you won a moral victory.  Now go back to limply boffing your dumpy ageing wife, said dumpiness no doubt accentuated and rubbed in your effete face by the constant comparisons to the hot unavailable babysitter prancing around your home.

I respond: “I was wondering if your first email was a neg.” A “neg” is pickup patois for the mild insult.

He shoots back: “No, it was playful teasing. And yes, I have read the book.”

Thus commences a flurry of e-mails arguing whether his line qualifies as a neg. Finally, he brings out his trump card: “Considering that I know most of the people in the book personally from before the book was released, I’m gonna have to disagree.”

The player loses his cool here.  Since he still thinks he’s talking to a girl, he shouldn’t have gotten defensive.  His best play would have been to casually acknowledge the Game as something his girl buddy told him about and then bounced the conversation to the related subject of dating and flirting.  In other words, act like it’s no big deal. 

Aha. I hit the sleazeball jackpot, a longtime pickup artist. I tell him I’m glad my womanly radar warned me against him.

Jacobs is giddy that he can stick it to a guy who symbolically represents every jerk he ever resented for getting the girl when he couldn’t.  Settle down, Beavis.

He says, “I was hoping online dating would introduce me to different girls than the ones I pick up and seduce in bars, clubs and starbucks. So far not.”

Bad move.  Too hostile.  This guy is not a player, he’s a struggling ex-beta.  There is much learning ahead for him.

It was the closest thing to an admission of guilt that I was going to get.

I write, “Just remember as you wade through the dating pool [his lame metaphor, by the way]: we women are not just here to be conquered as part of the game.”

Bitter beta resentment – it’s what’s for dinner!

I’m a magnet for scammers. Everyone wants down my pants. Michelle probably would have sniffed this guy out eventually, but I’m proud that I saved her from a date.

Michelle thanks you by flaunting her luscious goods in front of your ineffectual feeble manhood.

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Scenes From the Sexual Market

I shared space (acreage) on the elevator today with a woman pushing 300 pounds.  One of the VPs, a portly middle-aged man with strong body language, got on with us.  She exchanged a pleasantry with him and he briefly acknowledged her with a head nod.  She began telling him a story about her weekend when the elevator door opened and an attractive, slim Asian woman stepped in.  Right in the middle of the fat woman’s friendly conversation with him he promptly turned his attention to the Asian woman and offered up a big smile, eagerly asking about her week and flirting with her like he was a schoolboy with a puppy crush.

I watched the reaction of the fattie.  She looked chastened, forced to cut her own conversation off, and lowered her head looking at her shoes which were two sizes too small for her porky hooves.  I understood her pain, but I did not sympathize with it.  At her age, she should know how the world works.  If she wants to be treated better, she needs to lose a lot of weight and stop being a self-made sideshow freak.

Losers in life have to suffer in big and small ways every day, every hour, and every minute of their miserable existences.  Most of us don’t notice their suffering because we’re too wrapped up in our own dramas.  But suffer they do, their worthlessness as human beings getting shoved in their faces daily by others who aren’t even aware of their hurtful actions.

Welcome to the jungle.  There’s no opting out of this reality. 

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“I only take Viagra when I’m with more than one woman.”

Fame, wealth, and charisma have made Jack Nicholson the heartbreaker of 2,000 women.  At the age of 70, and looking every bit of it, he spends his leisure time in boats with a tumbler in one hand and a bevy of young women draped around him like his royal concubines.  This means Jack is The Man.

I’ve got the biggest tits here.

I can already hear the female chorus of unctuous naysayers.  “Oh, I would *never* sleep with him.  He’s gross!”  “Fame and money don’t matter to me. It’s the man inside that counts.”  “If Jack Nicholson came onto me I’d turn him down.”

Right.

You don’t know how you’d act in the company of a major male celebrity, but I can guarantee you it wouldn’t be anything like you say you’d act from the comfort of your bedroom where there is no chance of ever meeting Nicholson.  Virtue is easy when you have no other choice.

A face-to-face meeting between Jack and a good girl who scoffed at the idea that she would submit to his charms would be a sight to behold as she gradually abandoned every one of her principles. 

First, her heart would race.  But she’d try to remain calm and aloof.  After all, she’s not like those starfucking sluts.  Then, Jack would speak.  And it would sound just like all those movies she watched with him in it.  He might even drop a quote or two.  *sqeal*!  Oh boy, her composure is starting to crack.  Maybe Jack might lasciviously angle his body so that his hot Oscar-winning breath blows across her neck and his belly brushes her arm.  He does this with his trademark sunglasses reflecting the light and his shit-eating joker grin exuding total unstoppable confidence.  She no longer notices his belly and man boobs.  Her loins feel like a rainforest. 

She looks around and something she does notice is how many beautiful women are languidly caressing Jack’s body, laughing at his every word, blatantly aroused to the point of orgiastic explosion.  For some inexplicable reason, noticing this turns her on even more.  Parrots and monkeys are swinging through her snatch.  Jack pats his lap.  No words exchanged; she walks over and sits in it.  He smells like drunken old man, but all she can think of is how attractive his eyes are when he squints from the sun.  Minutes later, in the cabin, Jack’s wang is driven in to the hilt.  Heeeere’s little johnny!

A woman’s principles are like an impressionistic painting — beautiful to contemplate from a distance but all over the place once you get up close.

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From Kitten to Cougar

It’s depressing to see drunk older women at nightclubs vainly trying to hold onto their former glory.  It’s a study in contrasts when these aging beauties go to clubs full of kittens.  They aggressively flirt with every guy because when they haven’t been hotly pursued by a man under 60 in ten years they turn to the hard sell for male attention.  If the cougar asks you the time and you give it to her she takes that as a signal to stroke your chest provocatively.  They rationalize this pathetic behavior as maturing into a confidently assertive woman who is done playing games like they did when they were “silly girls”.  There are so many self-help books now I think a person could positively spin just about any shitty life predicament.

I can think of quite a few girls I frequently see haunting the nightlife scene who’ve gone from kitten to cougar in just a few years.  Many women in the socialite crowd have crossed the cougar rubicon, yet stubbornly refuse to give up their lifestyle.  When all you’ve ever known is the inside of a club, 37 varieties of martinis, and dancing on raised platforms as horny guys give you your attention fix, it’s understandable you’d find it hard to accept your demotion to has-been hottie.

Cougarness in strangers is not hard to identify.  Friends are another matter.  When you see a person every day you don’t notice their physical changes from aging so much, but someone you see once every six months can shock you with their age-related deterioration.  The precise changes are hard to pinpoint but taken as a whole it’s obvious when the bloom of youth is gone.

The statuesque woman on the left is on the cusp of cougarhood.  Even though she has admirably stayed in shape, her upper arms betray her age, especially around the armpit, as do her sinewy hands.  You know her flesh would not bounce back from a firm squeeze, like a quarter off a Marine’s bed.  If she is still single, her time is short to find a life partner before she has to begin lowering her standards.

After marriage and kids, most women surrender the willpower to fight the ravages of time and let themselves go, content to become matronly and raise their children.  This is the normal progression of life.  But with career-delayed marriages and perpetual dating where she is waiting around forever to find a man who will meet all 463 bullet points in her mental checklist, the clubs are beginning to fill with women who have missed the boat yet won’t admit it to themselves.

Desperation causes them to do just about anything to cling to their fading looks.  You will see women over 30 suddenly lose a lot of weight because they are under the impression that being skinny will shave the years off.  Celebrities like Angelina Jolie and Renee Zellweger do this.  While it beats being obese, most simply look like bony older women with sunken eye sockets and loose skin.  Tom Wolfe, in his prophetic opus ‘Bonfire of the Vanities’, called these women “social X-rays”.  It was an excellent description, as it highlighted their physical emaciation along with their superficiality.

This is an unwanted chest-stroking waiting to happen:

Eventually, the cougar who is sufficiently self-deluded about her ability to attract men becomes a brothel madam.

This woman is a fixture at the eurotrash clubs around town:

She is pretty, but it is only a matter of a few years until a roaring cougar emerges.  She looks Russian, which means that she will hit the wall sooner and harder than most women her age.  She has done the smart thing here by hooking up with an older man.  She will look hot to him for a longer time than she would to a younger man.  Not surprisingly, he displays the body language of a former player.  I suspect he is an artist of some sort.  Older male artists, as opposed to older male investment bankers or lawyers, are especially gifted at banging Lolitas.

As a man and an aesthete, watching women grow old and their beauty disappear forever is the greatest tragedy of life.  If I could magically prevent every woman from aging and thus increase the aggregate beauty in the world, I would do it.

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A Vision of Equality

What would a world where women were no different than men look like?  Where the utopian feminist ideals of gender equality held sway?

The executive summary:  there’d be grab-ass in the streets, on the metro, at the job, in the church pews, all hours all the time.  The city air would fill not with the sounds of traffic and construction and sirens but the gruntings of humans in mid-coitus.  Nature hikes at Great Falls would lose a lot of its ambience as the chirping birds and tree leaves rustling in the wind yielded to the Uuhs and Ahhs of sweaty thrustings.

We get a window into that imaginary world in the lives of gay men circa 1970s before the AIDS epidemic inspired the media to paper over the true nature of male homosexual libido.  If women had the same intense, indefatigable, indiscriminate sex drive as men it would resemble M. Blowhard’s description of his time as a straight man witnessing the gay scene in New York:

If Fire Island was acres of beef on the hoof, Christopher Street was Mardi Gras in New Orleans, only with fewer inhibitions and without a female to be seen. One club or bar after another … Each establishment, and the street itself, filled with exuberant gayguys in freaky costumes … Music, drugs, and booze everywhere … Carousing of a pitch that would put beer-drinking Spring Break jocks to shame …

As well as the most aggressive and direct sexual behavior I’ve ever witnessed. I found the scene overheated and hair-raising all at once. I’d never before and have never since witnessed a scene so single-mindedly focused on getting off. People as commodities … Relentless dick-centeredness …

And what was courtship like between gay guys?

At the bars and on the sidewalks of Christopher Street there wasn’t a pretence at conversation, let alone at recognizing that anyone might have a personality. You were understood to be there to have sex, period. The single and only point was to find someone you could get off with, and quickly, because someone else you would want to get off with might stroll by in a few minutes. Imagine city block after city block offering nothing but sexual challenge and sexual invitation.

The author of the book on the gay sex scene of the 1970s describes it in vivid terms:

Whatever fantasy you had, you always knew you could satisfy it any time, night or day, at one of the many sexual playgrounds …

Urban gay male life had evolved over a decade from personal salvation into a communal identity and now, as the Saint [a famous disco] became our weekly Mecca, into a quasi-religion. Several thousand muscled, shirtless gay men in black 501 jeans … Upstairs was a huge darkened balcony converted into carpeted bleachers where hundreds of stoned men fucked all night and into the day.

To lose oneself so completely in the wall-to-wall men moaning in the dark … soaring on a hit of ethyl chloride … was like being transported to some heavenly other planet somewhere beyond the stars.

Don’t kid yourselves.  This is exactly what relations between men and women would be like if women possessed the mental and emotional machinery of men, except instead of one Christopher Street there would be millions.  If we were equal in the ways that the feminist movement which inculcated two generations of women into its warped worldview insisted we were, and our psychological differences were only social constructions amenable to change, then the result would be a lecherous orgy of such proportions as to make de Sade blush.

Rampant sex and the perpetual pursuit of sex with thousands of willing partners would grind society to a halt.  If STDs didn’t wipe out a significant portion of the population, sheer physical exhaustion from day-long fuck marathons would render the rest incapable of anything more than satisfying the bottom of Maslov’s hierarchy of needs.

Romance novels about dating, seduction, and intimacy would have to be re-engineered to reflect the new reality.  Actually, romance novels would cease to exist.  Porn would become even more ubiquitous than it is now, flashing from giant electronic billboards over musty cityscapes drenched in the effluvium of sex fluids like some raunchy Bladerunner alternate universe.  Every vice imaginable would find its expression unfettered by moral disapprobation.

In this equalist fantasy, or nightmare, dating takes on a whole new hue.  Those first shy stabs at awkward flirtations would pluck the heartstrings like this:

Him: “Hi.”
Her: “Hi.”
Him: [grabs ass]
Her: [grabs ass back]
{sexual intercourse}

If courtship progressed as far as a first date:

Him: “Hi, you’re cute, wanna get a drink sometime?”
Her: “I’d like that. Here’s my number. Call me sometime.”
[15 minutes later at bar]
Him: “Wow, that’s really cool that you’re into golden showers.  I heard the bathrooms here are great for fucking.  All the walls are mirrored.”
Her: “Let’s find out!”
{sexual intercourse}

Put away all your player manuals, you won’t need them.  Want to broach the subject of multiple short and long term relationships?  Threesomes?  A2M?

Him: “Wanna do A2M, threesomes, or be a member of my harem?”
Her: “You had me at A2M!”

Marriage?  Kids?  Um, yeah.  Civilization?  It’d putter along for a while, but eventually the voracious id unleashed would reverse human achievement so rapidly that the forests would retake the cities, as it is doing in Detroit right now.  I doubt you could walk M Street more than two blocks without seeing penis in vagina somewhere along the way.

Left to their own insatiable appetites, men are dogs.  Underneath all the game playing, romantic gestures, conversational fluff, and resource display lies a feral beast who’d smash through that facade as soon as the gatekeeper relinquished her keys.  Women put the brakes on this steamroller of lust.  Love helps keep it distracted… at least for a while.

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Becoming a Minor Scenester Celebrity

in eight fab steps.

1. Identify your target demographic.

 2.   Dress the part.

3.   Frequent your designated list of certified hip venues.  Do not commit social hara-kari by showing up to the same place twice in one week.

4.   Take pics of yourself having fun in certified hip venues. Hold camera steady at arm’s length or recruit BFF/fuckbuddy.  Solicit ever-present amateur foreign photographer with tit flashing or pouty-lipped pose.

5.   Befriend someone in the circle jerk who runs a website dedicated to digitally archiving last night’s fun.  Because the only reason you are having fun is so that you can see pictures of yourself having fun the next day.

6.   Build fanbase of inquisitive internet onlookers with living vicariously issues.

7.   Repeat ad nauseum until you are having your picture taken unsolicited by fun-archiving friends who expect to have the favor returned.  Amuse yourself by logging into public forums to see how many angles they caught of you in jpeg format.  The new fishnet stockings and crotchless panties looking fine from floor-level perspective!

8.   Never look straight at the camera.  This shows you are too busy whoring attention and being a poseur to notice that someone is taking your picture.  Effect a calculated aloofness.  You’re set for 5-10 years of juicy coutureness.

Alternate Route:

Deal coke.

For guys, minor scenester celebrity (MSC) is a great way to get laid with other aspiring scenesters, even if you are ugly.  In fact, if you are ugly, go balls out ugly.  Shove it in people’s faces.  That’s called being authentic.

For girls, MSC will result in thermonuclear meltdown levels of female cattiness.  It is irrelevant to getting laid, except insofar that someone will now digitally archive in photos or rumors your propensity for spreading your legs.

The Late Night Shots dust-up inspired this post.

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First Porn Experience

For most guys porn has been a part of his life since his first adorable little ejaculation.  It’s been a good friend, right there all along, assisting in quickie wanks, long drawn-out Saturday afternoon sessions, and walk-by chubbies at the office (pre-firewall days).  It’s helped to raise our standards of what we expect in bed from the women we date (another reason why women are getting sluttier.)  Recently, I found myself reminiscing about my first exposure to porn.

It was at my grandparents’ house.  I was exploring the basement when I came across a copy of The Joy of Sex in an old beige filing cabinet.  What a find!  The rush of excitement was instantaneous.  The pencil sketch drawings were thin gruel compared to today’s high res video on demand, but I was 14 and just saying the word “boobie” was enough to give me blue balls.  I pored over every single picture.  Eventually I got around to reading the words.

I don’t know what was skeevier — getting off to porn with my grandparent’s watching Jeopardy in the next room, or finding porn in their home, a place I used to think was holier than a confessional.  I’m pretty sure the book smelled like old people.  That didn’t stop me.

From then on I was a perverted pirate on a porn treasure hunt, always looking for my next fix.  Like women, the chase was almost as much fun as the viewing.  With each score I ratcheted up my demands for stronger, purer stuff.

My next big find was my parent’s underwear drawer.  Big honking VHS tapes with colorful scenes all over the sleeve.  I later learned that most of my friends found their parents’ porn in the underwear drawer as well.  I wondered if our parents got together on bridge night to discuss the best places to hide the porn from the kids.  In their infinite wisdom they decided under the granny panties.  Come on, that’s the first place a kid is gonna look knowing that’s exactly where his dopey parents will think he won’t look.  It wasn’t long before I found the vibrators and devices I still can’t identify to this day.

Porn is so ubiquitous now that the thrill of the chase is gone.  Kids these days have no idea what it was like back when we had to walk 5 miles through the snow, uphill both ways, dodging suicide bombers, to get to number 2 pencil sketches of vaj.  Today it’s log on, rub one out, get back to whatever you were doing.  There’s no anticipation.  It’s not Christmas morning anymore, it’s a typical Tuesday afternoon.

In the distant past when men had nothing but glimpses of ankle to masturbate to, actual sex must have been an earthshaking experience.  It must have been the kind of thing that men died for… and created civilization for.

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